The Thief, The Fed, and The Hacker
by It's Copyrighted
Summary: To the thief-daughter of a mobster, feds are bad news. To the golden-boy of the blue-collar crime division, criminals can't be trusted. So it's no surprise that when Clary Morgenstern is brought in for the murder of her father, and Jace Herondale is given the case, sparks don't exactly fly. But hate isn't going to get them anywhere when they're trying to track down a killer.


**Just to be clear, I think this chapter might be a great load of crap. It was okay in the beginning, and then I started to make Clary scary. But whatever. If you comment on this story, I promise I will try** **to get back to you, and I will definitely be dedicating a chapter to you at some point, if the story continues which it will not if I don't get reviews. So, reviews, munchkins, reviews! I don't know if you like the story or not if you don't.**

**Summary: ****_To the thief-daughter of a mobster, feds are bad news. To the golden-boy of the blue-collar crime division, criminals can't be trusted. So it's no surprise that when Clary Morgenstern is brought in for the murder of her father, and Jace Herondale is given the case, sparks don't exactly fly. But hate isn't going to get them anywhere when they're trying to track down a killer._**

**If you have any ideas on how to improve that, I would absolutely love to hear them because I think that's a crap summary. **

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**Clary POV**

I really think prison cells suck. It's like nobody ever heard of privacy while designing them- only efficiency. Bunk bed in the corner, the mattresses of which were a dull brown, converted from their original crisp white. Toilet in the other corner, reeking from something either the rats or your cellmate left behind- but you're too scared to check. Again, the toilet is now roughly the color of dry dirt, a product of inmate after inmate relieving themselves without a proper shower. Actually, most things in your cell will probably have been white at some point, except for the window pain, which is painted resolutely black. Cracks on the ceiling, smelly potties and all, my jail cell was the epitome of what a five-year-old would think prison looked like. Don't get me wrong, most prisons are not like this. I should know, seeing as I spent a large portion of my time in one while I was younger, visiting my dad, Valentine.

It's a long story.

However, this was my first time inside a cell. I mean, as a jailbird. Up until this point, I've actually been fairly careful about what I do so I _didn't_ end up like Valentine- I don't like to plead relation to the man- but I must've slipped somewhere along the way. Which is surprising since the last time I did anything _remotely_ illicit was two months ago in Berlin, and I _know_ I couldn't be in here because of that because a) I was in Berlin, which the FBI would not have been interested in unless I was identified as a U.S. citizen, which brings me to b) I made sure my Russian was impeccable, my Russian driver's license redeemed, and I even had a fake passport identifying me as Alina Komarovski. A Russian citizen. (All this for a small jewelry heist. I mean, _really_.)

So, as you can probably assume, I, Clarissa Morgenstern, have absolutely no idea why FBI agents barged into my apartment last night. And the most infuriating part is, _they wouldn't tell me_. I think I should have the right to know why I still have the bruises on my arm from a particularly nasty guard grabbing me. _In my freaking penguin pajamas_. To add insult to injury, no one would speak to me as I was incarcerated, and no one would even glance my way when I told them I wanted my dinner back (the microwave burrito sitting on my kitchen table, which I was just about to eat, was forgotten during my arrest, strangely enough. Knowing the FBI, I'm surprised they didn't collect it in one of their plastic bags as evidence).

If you can't tell, I was extremely, royally, pissed.

For about five hours I've been staring at the wall from where I sit on the edge of the bottom bunk. An orange jumpsuit sits the top bunk, which I guess they wanted me to put on. As if I would do anything for them after they deprived me of my beauty sleep and cheese-bean burrito. It's not like they can make me put it on without risking a lawsuit for sexual assault anyway, though I would rather avoid such drastic measures.

Ah, the perks of having several crooked lawyers on your side.

So, here I am, in fleece penguin pjs and a t-shirt, with dirty, paint-smattered Chuck Taylor's on my feet and my flaming red hair pulled into a messy bun to avoid everyone seeing it in its frizzy glory. Not the most composed I've ever been, but hey, I think I deserve extra points for keeping that brewing bitch-fit inside of me after my hellish night.

I got up and walked around, tired of staring at the crack in the wall where cockroaches seemed to be breeding. A small, grimy, mirror, mounted above a small sink, was my new fascination. I stared intently at the pale, sallow faced girl that I saw. She had huge, purple bags under her eyes, which were a bright, almost unnatural green. A smattering of freckles marked the skin on her nose, and her hair was so red it could give Ariel the mermaid a run for her money. Honestly, I looked like a sixteen-year-old after a night of underage drinking who woke up in the wrong side of the wrong person's bed. That's pretty sad, because I'm twenty-one.

Unsatisfied with what I saw, I gave into my vanity and was pinching my cheeks when the tell-tale metallic footsteps of a guard echoed along the corridor facing my cell. I've had enough experience with these places to know that I was in what most would call a low-security sector of the prison, which could mean that my alleged crime was not serious, they were still determining what to do with me, or I actually was high security but they didn't have enough room or time to give me a higher security cell. I really hoped it was the first, because the alternative to fines or a week in prison would probably be something I couldn't bale myself out of. Anyway, as a result this ward's non-priority inhabitants, guards were relatively sparse here, meaning this one had a reason for coming.

Coming to the barred doors of my cell, I could see down the ling hallway to where an overweight man in a blue guard uniform was clomping past the cells. The belt fastened along his waist sported a walkie-talkie, a pistol, and a Taser that he seemed all too ready to use based on how his hand hovered over it. He narrowed his eyes at the people in the cells, as if daring any of us to jump out at him. Suddenly, his eyes fastened on the number above my cell, and his disgruntled gait turned into a brisk walk as he strode purposefully towards where I stood. Or, at least as purposefully as a man who walked like a duck could.

Figures I would be the object of this idiot's attention. I shrunk back in my cell, hoping to avoid confrontation. There was absolutely no way I wanted to go with someone who could very well deliver me to a cell made of seamless concrete, bulletproof glass, and motion and/or heat sensors. I think I've developed a phobia from my days as a twelve year old, slipping through the maximum-priority ward of Sing Sing, trying desperately to avoid my father's insanity. Even for a guy in New York's highest security prison, he was a nut-job.

Regardless of my thoughts of blending into the puce walls, the guard stopped right outside my door, motioning for me to peel myself from the shadows. Suppressing a sigh, I walked to the entrance.

"Come on." Was all he said before opening the door and grabbing my wrists in his pudgy hands. He forced them behind my back as we marched out of the cell block and into a blank hallway. I was working on the theory that I was currently in some sort of small county prison, which would explain the small cell blocks and complete absence of reasonable security. Honestly, I'd only seen two security cams in the hallway. Turning onto another corridor, this one lined with steel doors that were probably offices, Pudgy-Guard marched me to the last door on the left where he gave me a look that clearly said _stay there or else _and released one of my wrists to knock on the door.

A lazy "Come in" was heard a moment later, to which the door was opened and I was led into what looked like a small waiting room. A faded red couch was situated under a window, from which I could see what looked like office buildings, blurred by mist and rain. A potted plant and a fishbowl could be spotted, and to add to its cliché-ness, a blond secretary sat typing at a small wooden desk to my right. She looked up as I entered, sending me an indecipherable look before looking back at her desktop screen. Another door, labeled simply "CHIEF" in gold lettering sat next to her. Standing there awkwardly with Pudgy-Guard still gripping my wrists, I wasn't entirely sure why on earth we were here. Moving from her perch, the secretary knocked on the other door, stuck her head through as she opened it, and exchanged a few words with the person inside.

Finally definitively acknowledging us, she nodded curtly at the Pudgy-Guard as if to say _you can go now_, turned swiftly to me and said "Detective Herondale will see you now."

Since my escort had left, and the secretary was looking at me expectantly, I stepped forward to open the door.

**JACE POV**

I finally got a blue-collar case. I've been working for the FBI for two years now, and I've almost never even been allowed in the blue-collar office. At twenty-two, I'm a bit precocious. I graduated undergrad a year early, and have been working for the FBI ever since. My parents are senior agents. My grandmother's the chief. Working for the FBI has been the only job I was ever I was interested in, and a spot in the bureau has practically had my name on it since the day I was born.

Not to brag or anything. When I graduated Harvard, however, I thought I'd go straight to blue-collar. The interesting stuff. I'd be a detective, solve murder mysteries, rescue hostages, be adored.

It didn't turn out that way.

I was demoted to white-collar, with a mountain of paperwork on my desk every morning and my eyeballs practically falling out of their sockets every night. The most exciting thing that happened there was a small ponzi scheme that was reasonably exciting. I didn't even get to arrest the crook, though, and I got double the papercuts from all the files that were suddenly added on to my already enormous workload.

In retrospect, putting me in white-collar was probably an attempt on my gandmother's part to put some humility into me. I've frequently been told that I have an ego the size of Alaska, which may be true, but putting me in white-collar was just cruel. Someone must have sensed my misery, because I finally got promoted to blue-collar. And here I am, second month in my new division, and I already have my own case. Honestly, I think that was my dad's idea. He's trying to prove I can't handle my own case so he can have an excuse to put me back in white-collar.

But I'm going to solve this case. I know it. We already have a prime suspect lined up, though judging from her picture, murder probably isn't something she's capable of. Murder. My first case is a murder case. I sighed. If we do catch the killer, I hope they're not a homicidal maniac. I hate dealing with unstable killers. I saw my dad arrest one when I was sixteen. The man was deranged. Completely off-the-handle.

I looked out the window. The police station in Manhattan I'm using to interrogate the suspect is smushed in between two larger buildings, squat and square, and hasn't been renovated since the 70s (which the truly hideous pink tiles in the bathroom can attest to). It's only a couple of blocks away from Time Square, and consequently not very far from the suspect's high-rise apartment. Drumming my fingers impatiently on the desk, I wait for the suspect to finally grace me with her presence. Last night when my guys made the arrest, I wasn't there. I got held up at the office, curtsey of my father. So really, I haven't seen the girl in person before. Admittedly, I'm curious. What kind of girl would do what everybody thinks she did?

A girl raised brutally, I told myself. A girl trained to hate. A girl with a nasty father and most likely a nasty mother. A knock permeates through the hard wood. "What?" I call. The door opens. The pretty receptionist, Helen I think, opens the door.

"Detective, the suspect's here." She says.

"_Finally_. I was beginning to wonder." She sends me a look. I guess that was unprofessional. "Right. Send them in." I say quickly.

"Sure thing. Think you can wait a moment longer?" She smirks at me. I wink at her. She sends me a look of disgust, and then leaves. What was her problem?

The door opens a second time. This time, a girl maybe my age or younger steps through. She, like Helen, is someone who you could get used to looking at, even though she's obviously a mess. Somehow I thought this murderer would look more… put together, though obviously I thought wrong. Clarissa Morgenstern, the girl in front of me, didn't look much more dangerous than the picture in her file. Which was to say, not dangerous at all. Her flaming red hair was pulled back haphazardly. Her black sneakers were chuffed. The pajama pants she was wearing had a small hole in them around the knee. And her white t-shirt had what looked like taco sauce on it.

How could a girl like this kill her father?

**CLARY POV **

Somehow, when I stepped through the door, I was expecting someone… older. And definitely uglier. Because let's face it, this Detective Herondale guy should have been an Abercrombie model. The first word that would come to mind when looking at him would be _gold_. His skin was golden. His hair was golden. Even his eyes were this weird hazel-amber color. We both took a second of awkwardly staring at each other before I snarkily said, "So can I sit down?" He smirked.

"Please do." He intoned. I stiffly walked over to the desk he was sitting behind and pulled out the metal chair. I sat.

"Why did you arrest me?" I said, annoyed. Most people would be a little bit more than annoyed at this point, and I actually was pretty mad, but I decided that it would be best not to yell at a fed. He just smirked at me again, though I caught a flicker of surprise.

"Aren't I supposed to be asking the questions?" He said.

"You don't seem to be doing that very well," I snapped. "And besides, this doesn't look very much like an interrogation room. It's my right as an American citizen to know why I was arrested. I could sue you and your goons for this." He just smirked again.

"We had a warrant. If they didn't show you it, it's not my problem." Now I was pissed. When I was ten, I had read _Holes_ by Louis Sachar. One of the things that stood out to me the most was the Warden's rattlesnake-venom nail polish. When my dad got out of jail, I had been so fascinated with the concept of nail polish that could inflict so much damage on someone that I made my dad hire someone to make me a set of rattlesnake nail polish in every color of the rainbow. I still hadn't dried up my supply, and suddenly I regretted not painting my nails last night. My fingernails itched to rake down Herondale's cheek. We'd see if he smirked when he was screaming from the snake venom marring his beautiful face.

"See though, I think it is." I hissed. "But I'll let that slide until this is over. When you tell me why you had the right to issue a warrant in the first place." I'm pretty sure I was spitting fire at that point. I'm sure Herondale probably realized it too, but he just smirked.

"If you insist." He said. "Because I don't feel like it, I'm not going to find some fancy interrogation room for you." He put a small voice-recorder on the desk. "I'm going to use this instead, because I generally find it's just as effective and much more convenient." I rolled my eyes. He pressed a button on the side. "So, Clarissa Morgenstern, do you know why you're here?" I narrowed my eyes.

"No, you asshat, and you know that." He never lost his smirk.

"Clarissa, what were you doing two nights ago, Saturday?" I had to think about it.

"I was at the Pandemonium Club with my friend Simon." It was true. I had decided to become social and do a little bit of mingling at Pandemonium. It's not like I had anything better to do.

"Tell me, Clarissa, what is your relationship with your father, Valentine?" I stiffened. I didn't like to think of the guy. I knew he'd been nothing but good to _me_, but he was a bad, bad, man.

"Okay. I haven't really seen him in a while." Herondale nodded.

"Do you know what he was doing on that Saturday night?" No. No, I didn't, and I told Herondale so.

"But," I added on, "As far as I know he was in his office. That's where he always seems to be." Suddenly, I was suspicious. "Why?"

"Clarissa, you were arrested last night because we found Valentine dead behind his desk Sunday morning. And you're the prime suspect."

**JACE POV **

I saw the pure shock on Clarissa's face before she hissed, slowly, deliberately. "_Liar_. You _mother-fucking liar_." I scooted back in my chair involuntarily. The venom in her words was palpable, and suddenly I knew exactly why she was being accused of murder- the girl could be vicious. And not cute, kitten, vicious, but snarling mountain-lion vicious.

I knew that all the emotions the Morgenstern was showing could be fake- her father could fake them like a pro- but something about her told me she'd never bother to do something like that, because she wanted you to know exactly what she was thinking.

Silently, I passed her the picture of what we'd found on the floor that day in Morgenstern Circle Co. She drew in a sharp breath as she registered what she was seeing. A man was slumped on the floor- a man who looked almost nothing like the girl in front of me- with white-blond hair and broad shoulders. His face was a mess. It was covered in cuts and scrapes, a gigantic indent apparent in his temple. He was obviously dead.

"The autopsy concluded that it was him." I said quietly. "He was beaten to death. Time of death should have been around 8:00 Saturday night. We know you didn't have the best… relationship with him. And some of us at the bureau suspect you would be capable of it." She let out a harsh laugh.

"True, I didn't adore the man. And true again, I'm certainly capable of doing it." Something about her admitting to being able to kill someone like that chilled me to the core. I made sure Clarissa didn't see it, but I was starting to be kind of freaked-out by the tiny redhead. She shook her head and passed the picture back to me. "But I'm not the one you want. You seem to know a lot about what kind of man my dad was. Even if you believe the bullshit that he was reformed, you know he had a lot of enemies. Besides," She said, shaking her head again, "Even if I were to kill him, _which I didn't_, I would need a real reason. Because frankly, I have no use for a major corporation or five billion in my bank account. I'm comfortable. And killing like _that_- much too messy. It would be incredibly risky, not to mention being absolutely revolting. I'm not saying I've ever killed anybody, but that's really not my style." She leaned back. "And besides, I don't really think you have anything but suspicion to go on, so I suggest you let me go now before I really do sue your federal ass." I felt my face stretch into a smirk involuntarily. It was something I knew drove people insane, and I really didn't want to show that I _might _be a little wary of Clarissa Morgenstern.

It was my grandmother's unofficial motto- never show weakness. "All right." I said, relishing the irritated look on her face. "You can go. Expect a follow up, though. I don't think the bureau is going to let this go just yet." Clarissa just shook her head as she glided from the room.

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**So, a note about this: as I said at the top, I don't know if you like the story or not if you don't review. I would really love it if you reviewed this, even more than I would if you liked or followed this story. Even if you have nothing to say, just type something random so I know people are ****_reading _****this story. You have no idea how much the letters: ****_bwoadhofnweofrhneofwefowef _****would mean to me if you typed it into the box bellow and clicked enter. You don't have to have an account. You just need to have a keyboard. On hate: If you have criticism, make sure I know what you're talking about. If you want me to improve the quality, don't just be bitchy, because I will ignore it and assume you have some personal issues that I don't really need to concern myself with. Hate isn't the same as criticism, and I will not take it the wrong way if you tell me my grammar is atrocious. If you're telling me it's bad, it probably is. That's why I need to know- so I can fix it. Kay? And hey, this chapter was 7 pages in word! Hooray for me! **

**Right now, what I would really like to know is:**

**- What's your favorite ice cream flavor? **

**- Did the typos in here interfere with the reading? (I didn't proof-read the second half)**

**- Did you have a good day?**

**- Is there anything you need to get out to someone who will listen? **

**Tell me in the comments. (Unless it's the last one, in which case, send me a PM cuz' my ears are always open) **


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